On Glorious Wings

by Stephen Coonts

  The trees at the edge of the aviation field came closer, but the plane was still above them. As they passed over the top branches, Bill was sure that he could reach out and touch the leaves. They dropped closer to the ground and then the plane leveled off and sailed along just a few feet above the grass. Just when the wheels touched, Bill never knew, for there had been no bump or jar to mark the time or place when the plane ceased to be supported by the air and was running on its own wheels on the ground.

  The plane rolled a few yards and then stopped. Ned jumped out with a shout. Hoxey climbed out more slowly, but Bill, when he tried to get out, became aware of the fact that his legs would not move. They had lost all feeling. He rubbed them with his hands to try and restore the circulation.

  “Here,” called Hoxey, “give me a hand and help me lift out from the plane one of the gamest youngsters that I have ever seen.”

  By that time Jim and Mart, with several of the other mechanics, had arrived. They lifted Bill from the plane and rubbed his legs.

  “You must have had some flight,” said Jim after he had examined the plane. “You broke the record, but I’ll be darned if I see how you did it. What did you hold on to, Bill?”

  “Part of the time nothing, and the rest of the time Ned’s belt,” answered Bill.

  “But what did you hold on to, Ned?” asked Jim Taylor.

  “It was up to me to get a grip on something that would hold us both in the plane, so I wrapped my arms around those front brace wires,” said Ned.

  By that time Bill’s legs were behaving almost normally and he stood up. He saw Hoxey talking to Wilbur Wright and Johnstone and knew that he was telling them the details of the flight. Bill staggered over to the group.

  “I want to congratulate you upon the way that you kept your head,” said Wilbur Wright to Bill. “There are a lot of people who would have done just the wrong thing and then not one of you would be here now. The old record is no more, for you stayed up in the air for two hours and two minutes, official time.”

  He then went over to the plane and took the watch from the strut.

  “Bill,” he said, “I want you to take this as a souvenir of the flight. If it had not been for your courage, the record would never have been broken. You are the one who made the decision to stay up after the seat back gave way. The others had comfortable positions during the flight, but it took a lot of nerve for you to stick to it in that cramped position. How do you feel now?”

  “I’m all right now,” said Bill. “For a while up there in the air I thought that, if any record was broken, it would have been a two-man instead of a three-man record. One thing sure, I’ll never forget this flight.”

  “You had better come over tomorrow and do your flying on the ground while you watch someone else give the crowd the thrills,” remarked Hoxey. “You have done your share today.”

  “Tomorrow’s events are all of a spectacular nature and you will enjoy them,” said Johnstone.

  “I’ll be here all right tomorrow, but the next time that I go up as an added passenger, I am going to have a backstop put in along the rear edge of the wings,” called Bill as he started for home.

  LEARNING

  TO FLY

  FROM WINGED

  VICTORY

  by V. M. YEATES

  In my opinion, the best novel, bar none, about World War I aviation is Winged Victory. Victor Yeates flew Sopwith Camels, was shot down twice, and crashed several more times, all in 248 hours of flying without a parachute on the Western Front. The RAF discharged him in the summer of 1918 after he contracted tuberculosis.

  The flying is central to Winged Victory—no one ever wrote it better—but it was only a part of Yeates’ tale. Unlike the typical ex-pilot scribbling for the pulps, Yeates wanted to tell us of the savagery of war, tell us of the grim, bitter reality of young pilots who had found a new way to butcher each other. What he achieved was one of the great war novels of all time. It was his only book; he died of TB in 1934, the year it was published.

  On the twenty-first of March, the batman called Tom and Allen for C flight’s dawn job, and for once Tom did not go to sleep again. There was a tremendous racket going on; every kind of artillery seemed to be in action. It was certainly the prelude to the big German push. Thank God he was away from that rain of high explosives. Even to hear the distant tumult made his belly unhappy. Allen sat up.

  “What a row! I suppose it’s started.”

  Seddon awoke. Williamson awoke. They sat up in their camp beds, listening.

  “Good Lord! It must be on a fifty mile front,” said Williamson.

  “Anyhow, it brings the end nearer.”

  Outside the sky must be bubbling with flame, but the light of the lamps prevented their seeing more of it than small alterations in the tone of the windows’ blankness as the tree-filtered glare varied.

  “I expect we shall find it quite interesting watching the big push from above, and I dare say we shan’t get machine-gunned so much as in peace-time. They’ll be busier with other targets.”

  “You’re a great optimist, Bill,” Tom replied. “All the same, I wouldn’t mind an armour plated seat.”

  “Why not a seat at the War Office while you’re wishing? All among the patriots. Haven’t you any influence?” Seddon inquired.

  “If you only disliked Germans as much as you dislike patriots, in two months you would be known to the press as Captain Seddon, Terror of the Huns.”

  “Put in a V.C. if you can spare me one.”

  “V.C., R.I.P., Defender of the Faith.”

  “Against Tom Cundall.”

  “Stop it, you back-chat comedians,” Williamson demanded. “You’re painful. I’m going to sleep again.”

  “Sleep no more, Macbill. The push has started.”Tom got out of bed. “What about it, Allen? Shall we try to capture our eggs before they’re hard boiled?”

  “Right. I’m with you.” Allen sprang out of bed.

  “It’s the greatest achievement of the Huns so far, getting Cundall up twenty minutes earlier than necessary,” declared Seddon.

  The eggs, nevertheless, were boiled hard; but they had time for a comfortable smoke before going up, and Allen fortified himself by re-reading a letter from his girl.

  It was a fine morning, but misty. To the west the mist lay in dense patches, but it was clearer towards the lines. There the ground was thickly dotted with appearing and dissolving smoke of shell bursts. Tom’s engine started to miss, and would not pick up, so he gave the “dud engine” signal and turned back to the aerodrome. As it was only a matter of a plug, the trouble was soon put right. Then Tom wondered whether he should stop at home or go out again and try to find the flight, which was not due back for an hour. He wasn’t particularly likely to run across them, but perhaps the attempt should be made. He need not go far over the lines alone if it looked dangerous, and it seemed out of proportion to miss nearly a whole job just for a dirty plug. So he took off again and made for the lines. The ground mist was increasing, better not stay out long. He turned south when he reached the lines, watching the eastern sky carefully for Huns; but he seemed quite alone in the sky. Looking westwards, there was little to be seen but the white carpet of mist. He made a quick dash over Hunland, dropped his bombs from six thousand feet, and dived away westwards. It seemed to take an hour to get down to a thousand feet, with the mist all the time increasing until it covered everything except for here and there breaks. Soon he was flying over an apparently limitless sea of shining white cloud; and his engine started missing again. He flew north to where Arras had been a few minutes ago, but Arras was quite obliterated. All he could see through occasional rifts was the infinite desolation of an old battlefield; water-filled shell-holes and disused trench-systems.

  He must remember that the wind was from the west, and would drift him towards Hunland. He turned west to look for a gap in the fog where he could land: the sooner he found one the better, or there might not be any gaps left to find. He soon came to a d
ark patch in the whiteness, and went down to investigate it. Circling, he made out a road with all sorts of motor traffic passing along it. He was on the right side of the lines, but there were too many shell-holes about for him to attempt landing there, and he wandered farther west.

  Gaps were very scarce. He had been a fool to set out again. In consequence of an exaggerated sense of duty, seemingly brought on by the big push, he ran a considerable risk of being wiped out in a stupid crash trying to land in a fog. But if he got away with it this time, he would always listen to the still, small voice of discretion.

  He made calculations. Probably he could keep on another forty minutes. There was no chance of the mist clearing in that time. He had to find a gap or crash.

  He flew and flew. A dark line showed ahead. As he approached, it broadened into a long gap in which lay part of a village and a strip of fields. He circled and glided down into the nearest field; but he found when he tried to land that it was impossible; he was floating down the side of a hill, and he had to open out and climb through the mist. Probably the gap was along a ridge of high ground. He flew over the end of the village and went down to have a look at a field visible there. This seemed flat enough, but it was ploughed land. He zoomed out of the mist, but quickly decided he must take the chance of trying to land on furrows. He might not find another gap. He circled to get in position. He had never come down on furrows before, but he knew that the correct thing was to land with them and not across them. Luckily they seemed to run more or less with the direction in which the wind would be blowing, if there still was any wind; there had been a little when he took off. Landing, you had to hold off as long as possible so as to pancake, and touch ground with as little forward motion as might be.

  Having got the theory of it clear in his mind, Tom glided down, side-slipping to lose speed. Then he straightened out and floated along the furrows into the mist. He got his tail well down and pancaked a little way in good style, but the ground was so soft that the wheels dug in dead, and up went the tail till the Camel was standing on its nose; then gently over on its back, with Tom hanging upside down in the cockpit.

  He put one hand on the ground and undid the belt with the other and wriggled out of the wreck, a little muddy and feeling foolish. There was nothing to be seen but a small area of ploughland in the enclosing mist; but he could hear again, and the dominant sound was the thunder of unceasing bombardment: it was very distant.

  He lighted a cigarette and inspected the aeroplane. It had settled down gently and did not seem damaged beyond the broken prop and crumpled rudder upon which the tail was resting. It would have to be stripped to be taken away, and that would be a muddy job for somebody. Well, he must do something, and the correct thing was to find a guard for the aeroplane and then telephone the squadron. The village was probably half a kilometre away, but where was the road to it? He certainly could not explore in the mud and fog with nothing to guide him. So he sat down on the tail plane and listened for any approaching sounds that might indicate the direction of the nearest road. For a long ten minutes nothing happened. Then he heard a motor. He got off his perch and went forwards a few yards and came to the edge of a bank which had lain just beyond the range of vision and would have caused a more interesting crash if the aeroplane had drifted a very little farther. A few feet below him lay a road. He scrambled down the bank, and the motor, an A.S.C. lorry, loomed through the mist.

  The driver said that the next village (they were almost there) was “Arkeeves,” but he didn’t think there was anything there; he was bound for the railhead about two miles beyond. There would be a telephone at the railhead. There were two men beside the driver on the lorry. They both wanted to see the crash.

  “I shall want one of you to guard the aeroplane while I go along to the railhead and telephone. The lorry can pick up the guard on its return.”

  “It’s a mercy you weren’t killed, sir,” said the guard, when he saw with wonder the upside-down wreck.

  “I could do that a dozen times without getting hurt. Now your job is to see that nobody so much as lays a finger on it, and that no matches are struck near it.”

  Tom returned to the lorry and they set out for the railhead. They soon ran out of the mist and through the village of Arquèves and down a hill into the mist again, but it was beginning to clear. In ten minutes they reached the railhead, and Tom went to the telephone room and asked the operator to get the squadron for him; but the operator said he couldn’t get Arras area, the line had been broken somewhere by shell fire. Perhaps if he tried again in an hour or two it might have been repaired. The operator was a difficult man to talk to, being permanently engaged, apparently, in six different but simultaneous conversations. So Tom went out of the telephone room with the immediate idea of looking for food. It was half past nine. A tender emerged from the fog, and he was pleased to see that the driver was in R.F.C. uniform. He waved a beckoning arm, and the tender pulled up by him. The driver, who was alone, got out and saluted.

  He was from a local Aircraft Park, about ten miles away. Tom told him what had happened, and he said he thought his people would send over and collect the crash right away. He would get them on the telephone. He was an elderly man, and inclined to father Tom.

  “I’ll get you some breakfast, sir, if you like. I dare say you could do with it. If you wouldn’t mind eating it in the tender. I’ll get it a lot quicker than if you went to the R.T.O. I know my way about here, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Tom, “I wish you would. But we’d better ring through to your people first and make arrangements.”

  So they went to the telephone room and talked to the A.P. which said it would send along transport to deal with the crash at once, and the Ak Emma1 went off in search of food. He returned in a few minutes with a tray containing plenty of bacon and eggs, bread, butter, marmalade, and coffee.

  “That’s fine,” said Tom; “you’re a friend in need.”

  “That’s all right, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and have a snack myself.”

  Tom ate his breakfast with appetite. It was these wallahs with stationary jobs away in the rear who did themselves well, he reflected. They had means of tapping supplies before they got through to the mere cannon fodder in the trenches. A railhead must be a particularly good spot. Who would be a hero? “Not me,” said Tom to himself. The distant gunfire rumbled and rattled: heroes were being blown to pieces while other people ate bacon and eggs in comfort. Who would belong to the death or glory group if he could join the bacon-and-eggs party? There was no point in being blown to pieces, and as for glory, it might some day help to keep a first offender out of jail, and that was about all that could be said for it. And anyhow, what was it all about, this fighting? It certainly wasn’t Tom Cundall’s affair. Let the property owners fight their own battles. He would have bacon and eggs if he could get them.

  The Ak Emma returned later with an air of serenity. “Had enough, sir?”

  “Yes, thanks. Good feed. I gather you manage to do yourselves pretty well in these parts.”

  “Grub’s none too good at the A.P., sir. But there’s usually plenty doing ’ere if you know the cook.”

  “Well, have you anything more to do here? We’d better be getting along to the crash in case your people turn up.”

  “I’ve got a few things to pick up. Won’t take me long, sir.”

  “Right. Will you tell the driver of the A.S.C. lorry I don’t want him to do anything else except pick up his man.”

  Before he left the railhead Tom inquired again at the telephone room. The line to Arras was still out of order.

  The mist had cleared at the scene of the crash, and the news of it had spread. A dozen people of various races were looking at the aeroplane, and the guard appeared to be having an argument with some of the khaki element who possibly did not take his authority very seriously. However, the argument ceased at Tom’s approach, and some saluting was done.

  “Anything to report?”

 
“No, sir. All correct.”

  “Your lorry will be along soon. You are relieved now.”

  The guard saluted and dismissed himself for a smoke. Tom had nothing to do but wait. He leaned against the fuselage and listened while his new friend the Ak Emma told him about his wife and family at Camberwell. He had a girl of seventeen and a boy of fifteen, besides smaller children. But it was the two eldest that were troubling him. The boy swore he would join up the day he was sixteen. And as for the girl, the missis said there was no holding her.

  By half past ten the Ak Emma had become restless, and suggested he had better go and find out why help had not come. Tom was bored with him and agreed. He was in no hurry. Doubtless he would be able to get lunch in Arquèves. He sat on the fuselage and waited.

  The number of sightseers remained fairly constant, but the individuals kept coming and going. No officer, however, appeared among them for some time after the Ak Emma’s departure, and then Tom saw the approach of a captain’s badges and a clerical collar. He slid to earth.

  “Good morning, padre.”

  “Good morning. Are you all right?”

  “Quite, thanks.”

  “That’s good. I heard there had been a crash here, and I came over to see if anyone was hurt. Is your machine damaged?”

  “Not a great deal. But I shan’t be able to fly it away.”

  “Won’t you? Oh, it’s upside down. I see now.” The padre laughed with remarkable heartiness, and then checked himself. “You’re lucky to be alive, I suppose.”

  “Not on account of this little crash. I only turned over landing on this soft ground. I might do it a dozen times without hurting myself.”

  “Indeed. And what are you going to do now?”

  Tom gave him an account of the then state of affairs, and the conversation became discursive. After a time Dulwich for some reason entered into it, and they discovered that they had both been born there. That two natives of so sequestered a hamlet as nineteenth-century Dulwich should meet for the first time beside an overturned aeroplane in a field near Arquèves was too queer an event to be disregarded. There must be some Purpose in it, if only to secure Tom a luncheon. It appeared that the padre lived at a Corps School, which had its locus in a valley some fifteen minutes walk away.